I want to start off today by saying this week's post is a little bit different than most of my others. My wife and I ran a half-marathon in Atlantic City over the weekend with some family members. So this post is less about my week, and more about the race and what lead up to it.
Weight was 232 this morning. Still holding steady. Tapers do that to you, I guess. I'm not planning on running this week, so I imagine the weight will stay the same again next week. We'll see.
Shout out to my father in law for getting 5th in his age group for the 11k. Shout out to one of my wife's uncles for doing the same. Also, shout out to one of her aunt's who I didn't realize was running the Boston Marathon in two weeks. So cool.
This was one of the most anticipated weekends of my short running career. As the weekend approached, I knew that I had family coming in to visit/run with us, I knew that I would be running 13.1 miles in Atlantic City and neighboring beach towns, and I knew that it was going to hurt. How much depended on how much I put into this run.
Yesterday I spent the day freaking out about the weather. We had to drive up to get our race packets, so we did, but on the way we stopped at a few stores to see if I could find compression sleeves… just in case. I finally found some at a Nike outlet store. We picked up our packets, met up with one of my wife’s uncles, then drove home to relax for a little before going to church. My father in law met us there. I prayed for good weather and strong legs.
When we got home, it was time for dinner. Spaghetti. Lots of spaghetti. We spent a lot of our dinner conversation talking about what would be the appropriate attire for the anticipated temperatures. 42 degrees at the start time, partly cloudy, 4mph winds. A little chilly. Chilly enough for long sleeves? Tights? Just a t-shirt and shorts? WHAT TO DO?
Later in the evening, another uncle and aunt showed up with wine and bagels for the morning. It goes against my nature to drink alcohol the day before a race, but I admit that I had a glass. We talked a lot about what to wear with them as well. It was obviously stressing everyone else out too. I came to the conclusion that I would be wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and my new sleeves. It wasn’t going to be windy, and I’m a sweater. I’d rather be cold than hot any day of the week.
After pinning our numbers to our shirts laying out our clothes, and packing a bag, it was bed time. I didn’t sleep well.
I woke up before my alarm at 5:28. Beautiful. Got the dog, fed her, walked her, and brought her back in so I could use the bathroom and shower before leaving. After suiting up, it was out the door.
Once we went through the parking debacle of 2012, we finally checked our bag and got to the starting line. I’ve been stressing out about our time on this half for some time. My goal has been to run it under two hours. I did pace calculators that told me I couldn’t do it. I asked people on a running message board if I could do it, and many said no, it was too ambitious.
Tell me I can’t, and I’ll show you that I can.
The race starts, and we’re off. The goal was to stick to a 9:30 pace for the first few miles. We run past mile 1 and my watch beeps… 9:10. Ok. Too fast. Gear down turbo.
Mile 2: 9:29 – perfect
Mile 3: 9:15 – good enough.
Around now, I start feeling a sharp pain in my lower right back. I’ve never felt this before while running and wasn’t sure what to do about it. My wife, a physical therapist, tells me that it’s muscular. She can give me a stretch to do when we get home. Nothing I can do about it right now but tough it out.
As the miles tick away, we’re staying steady at a 9:10-9:20 pace. A little behind what we need if we’re going to stay under 2 hours, but we know we want to speed up to the end. After the turn.
As mile 4 passes, we’re off the boardwalk and onto the street. It felt like we were running on the side of a hill. My right knee, left hip, and right foot are all throbbing. The slope is killing me. We try to move up to the center of the street a little where the slope’s not so bad, but we end up getting pushed back down a little bit as runners are on their way back from the turn around.
As we hit the half-way turn around, my Garmin says we’re just over an hour. Pace is good, but we definitely need to pick it up here.
My wife is struggling with her asthma. I know she’s had to take her inhaler at least twice, maybe three times by now. I don’t want to push her too hard. I don’t want to leave her behind. But I also don’t want to miss my goal of a sub two hour half marathon.
Luckily my wife is a trooper. We’re pacing nicely. I’m throwing out high fives to the people who are still on their way out. I know that they need the motivation, and God knows I need the distraction.
Miles 6-9 are still on the street. We’re keeping it steady at around a 9:05-9:10 minute mile. We’re chipping away at the deficit, but not fast enough to be comfortable. At mile 8, I’m feeling like a champ. Although my foot is still bothering me and my hip and knee are still a little sore, I’m feeling great. Sub two hours here we come.
We decide that we want to hold back on increasing the pace too much until the last 5k or so. We turned back on to the boardwalk for the last 5k, and I’m hurting. My wife is pushing hard, I can tell. I feel like I want to stop for a second to walk. I don’t say anything.
We’re still running. Mile 11 comes, and our pace is right where it should be… 9:05 or so. We have moments of sub 9 pace, according to my Garmin, but I’m not sure if I trust it. It tells me 10:30 sporadically. I know we’re not that slow. I ignore the pace window on my watch.
We pass a clock. It doesn’t agree with mine. Neither does the distance. What the hell is going on? My wife reminds me that the clock says the time the race started. It took us a little over a minute to cross the line, so our chip time will be different. We’re still not going fast enough.
I feel like hell. I want to give up. My wife is ahead of me, and I don’t think she’ll notice if I drop back. She turns to give me a high five because “we’re doing it!” I start to get frustrated. I’m in a lot of pain. I just want to be left alone and concentrate on picking my feet up, and put them down. Quickly.
Mile 12. We’re not gonna make it. According to what I think I see on my watch, we need to keep a sub 9 pace to get there in time. I know I’m not going to have a kick. I don’t think I can pick up the pace any farther.
Mile 12.5. Wait a second. Do I have 6 minutes left to finish this thing and hit sub 2? I go into my head, throwing numbers around. I’m going to fast to focus, but I think I’m right. That’s a 12 minute mile pace. I can slow down.
No. Screw that. My wife’s setting the pace, just keep up. She has no idea how much farther we have to go, and she doesn’t know what the time deficit is. She’s just running hard. Keep up. Focus.
I can see the finish line. My father in law pops up on the side of the road for some pictures. I smile… or try to… but it’s time to focus. Head down. Move your feet. And do it faster.
We get close to the finish. I see the time clock. 2:00:**. Son. Of. A. BITCH!
Wait. We’ve got a little over a minute deficit from walking to the starting line. Our chip time isn’t the same as the clock. run. Run. RUN!
No kick. I’ve got nothing left. I’m about to collapse. I throw my body around like a maniac, and try to get my legs to move a little bit faster.
We cross the finish line. I look up to see our time, but my name is off the screen already. Shit. Did we do it? Don’t care… about to pass out. I kneel down for a moment to catch my breath. My wife looks like she’s about to topple over too.
We find the family that came to run (my father in law and one uncle finished 5th in their age group for the 11k that they ran… April Fools apparently means weird distances in the running world).They tell us that there’s a computer that you can plug your bib number in to get your unofficial chip time. After getting some refreshments, we make our way over. One of my wife’s uncles is checking his time too, so he gets ours for us.
1:59:21
Oh. Hell. Yes.
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